


Impulse

by wreckofherheart



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Wanda?’ She murmurs, and her voice pours with grief. ‘Do you ever leave in the night?’</p><p>[Natasha/Wanda]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impulse

**Author's Note:**

> I _might_ have entertained this ship a little when I watched _Civil War_.
> 
> I then entertained it some more a while later.
> 
> This is set during _Civil War_. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The earth, too, was a manic episode. Six days of hurried design. The last day, the day of rest, was when the final domino was tipped over. And God hoards tragedy; He watches each domino fall, gracefully, one by one. He, too, observes His very own destruction. 

Your body has betrayed. The last person you would ever trust is yourself. From your fingertips, red light dances into the atmosphere, until you’re maddened by its lust. Your eyes glaze over, with hot, scarlet fire, and the very ground you walk on tumbles. Scatters at your feet. Death willingly drops into your open arms: you have become its lover.

Imprisonment is all you can muster. You watch the bars descend, stab the earth, and you are trapped. There are no attempts to escape. You prefer your deserved condition, and, instead, you shrink into the darkest corner, and suffocate. Without your unnecessary aid, the world can flourish. 

A guest. She is bruised, and she bleeds, but she is not beaten––yet. Natasha has arrived at the Avengers Tower, and she doesn’t want to be here. She seems older. Or, perhaps, tired. You realise what it is immediately. The Black Widow steps past, and her eyes are dark. 

Her eyes are _sad_.

‘You have made a decision.’

Not a question. A statement, an insult; you almost feel mocked, but when she turns to face you, your heart crashes to the pit of your stomach. You _wish_ you were being mocked. Because it isn’t mockery; it’s disappointment, and something else. Something deeper. What Natasha endures isn’t particularly directed at _you_ , but at the whole thing. The whole design.

Those she thought as friends are _coming apart_. 

The earth separates. And Natasha has crawled back to square one.

You heard the stories of the Widow, with your brother. 

Stories which gave the Widow a name: 

_Avius_. 

Pathless.

Natasha is in agony. 

You are in despair, because, for the first time in your life, you can relate to another.

 

 

 

There are moments. Moments in which she stays. Not _for_ you. But she stays, regardless, and you’re puzzled as to why. Natasha has always been close to Captain America, and, yet, Natasha is almost _avoiding_ him. You wonder if she has made her decision also, but Natasha is much too conflicted. 

When she stays with you, it is only a moment.

A moment which might last five minutes, five hours or five days. Natasha is fairly reserved, quiet and she’s dangerous. But her presence doesn’t feel violent, it doesn’t feel aggressive. In fact, Natasha’s presence is calm, like an aura, a lullaby you had once heard, locked in your cage of cruelty. Those little songs your brother would sing while you slept.

Natasha asks about the building you destroyed, the lives you murdered. She asks so bluntly, you’re traumatised, but Natasha has witnessed more horrors than you ever will. Because she just sits there, unblinking, and yet, as always, harmless. She asks you how it felt, to wake up and realise the amount of lives you had burned; what does it mean to you?

It means when you look at yourself in the mirror, you collapse in shame. It means you no longer have the courage to step out of this damned tower, and so much as _speak_ to another human being. You have accepted your faults, and you can do nothing but punish yourself for an eternity.

Natasha looks away.

A shadow of an emotion passes her face. Too fast for you to register it.

 

 

 

‘Thank you.’

'What for?’

‘For asking why _I_ asked.’

 

 

 

Tony Stark wants you safe, and you agree to remain secluded. 

It doesn’t matter whether you agreed or not: you had already made your decision.

 

 

 

Natasha’s neck is sore. As if somebody, somebody large, has wrapped their hand around her neck, and _squeezed_. Desperate to choke the very life out of her. Her skin is inflamed, and she winces whenever she has to turn her head.

You walk over, worried. You’re worried about her, worried about how much it hurts, worried. Reaching out, you’re about to touch where the large hand has covered, but Natasha stops you. She grabs your wrist, and her eyes are sharp, pointed and she watches closely. 

It doesn’t really make sense. How you knew. How you had to ask.

‘Did you know the Winter Soldier?’

Natasha inhales. Exhales.

You frown. She’s relieved you have finally asked. Relieved _somebody_ has finally asked. Natasha doesn’t let go of your wrist. She pauses, waits, _a moment_ , and you study this broken, small woman who holds your hand so tightly. 

The earth is suddenly _lonely_. Controlled by hatred and manipulation and a cold desire. You see a girl, trapped in a cage, groomed, tamed and made into something great. A tool for war. A weapon, ready to be disposed of. You see yourself, so much of yourself, in this tragedy, and when you try to pull back, Natasha only grips you harder.

Leaves marks in your flesh.

Natasha’s lips are soft, and taste of snow.

You bite, she digs her fingertips into your waist, and she’s everywhere. You both drag, pull, taste and explore, curious children, pursuing a comfort you have both wanted for decades. _For a millennia_. She kisses you completely, and you wonder if it is you she kisses, or another, and each time you kiss her in return, she gasps a little, moans a little, needs a little.

‘I was his,’ she whispers. ‘And he was mine.’

Natasha opens her eyes. They are wide, frantic, excited and her cheeks are rosy with life. 

Pulling you in, she captures your lips with hers, kisses you so wonderfully, passionately, as if you’re the only girl in the world who matters to her. You feel warm, ablaze with hunger and frustration and love, and you cuddle her close, kiss her and kiss her, and she smiles. 

Smiles wide, and you hear her plea; a silent light in your mind.

незабудка.

( _Forget me not_.)

 

 

 

You practice. Once.

Lift the blocks up and over your head, try your hardest to remain _focussed_. One of the blocks dissolves at your touch, and you cease; the blocks tumble, slam onto the floor. You feel sore, you feel weak, you feel pathetic and you take the blame.

They will fight.

Steve and Tony. 

You know that. You know, eventually, one will lose their temper and _roar_.

And even though you dig yourself further and further underground, away from civilisation, you’re still uncertain. _Steve still sees much in you_. And, some days, it is as if Tony has given up. Walked away from you, and _notcared_.

But Tony is right.

 

 

 

‘Don’t you ever miss it?’

Freedom. 

The ability to breathe.

Peace.

You see right through her. ‘I don’t think you or I know exactly what _it_ is.’

Natasha says nothing. You win.

 

 

 

She shakes you awake, hands gentle and small. You sit upright, shocked, surprised and look at her in the darkness. Natasha wears her uniform, her Black Widow armoury, and you don’t ask where she’s been, and why she is here now. 

‘I know what that feels like: to lose your mind.’

You stop. 

Then, Natasha’s hands drop, and she reclines. The same little girl reappears. Puzzled, alone, wandering along a pathless desert. Naïve, to think that she had friends, she had family, and to shrug off this fight as trivial, only for it to become _real_.

All of this is serious. Natasha’s true colours show. She pretends to always have the answer, but it’s a very, very well-rehearsed performance. A façade. One which you never really saw, until now. 

It would be nice, you think. It would be nice to belong.

When you take her hand, Natasha doesn’t stir. She waits for your decision. 

So, you tug at her. You tug her to where you rest, and, obediently, Natasha kneels onto the bed, before hiding beneath the sheets. 

The girl smells of flowers.

Of daises, roses, daffodils and ivy.

You kiss her. You kiss her lower lip, and she moves into you; her hand graces up your waist, and past your neck. Carefully, she runs her fingers through your hair, and kisses your cheek, your forehead, and she’s so delicate, so terrified and confused. It would be endearing, if you weren’t so devastated. 

‘Wanda?’ She murmurs, and her voice pours with grief. ‘Do you ever leave in the night?’

It is more than you can bear. You kiss her fiercely, hard enough for Natasha to _feel_ it, and she succumbs to you, effortless and willing. 

Natasha need not ask. Need not be so scared.

After all, with her is the only place you’d rather be.

 


End file.
